Come, good-bye!"
Caillaud put his hand on Zachariah's shoulder.
"This will not do," he said. "For my sake forbear. I can face what
I have to go through next Monday if am not shaken. Come, Pauline,
you too, my child, must leave me for a bit."
Zachariah looked at Pauline, who rose and threw her shawl over her
shoulders. Her lips were tightly shut, but she was herself. The
warder opened the door. Zachariah took his friend's hand, held it
for a moment, and then threw his arms round his neck. There is a
pathos in parting which the mere loss through absence does not
explain. We all of us feel it, even if there is to be a meeting
again in a few months, and we are overcome by incomprehensible
emotion when we turn back down the pier, unable any longer to discern
the waving of the handkerchief, or when the railway train turns the
curve in the cutting and leaves us standing on the platform.
Infinitely pathetic, therefore, is the moment when we separate for
ever.
Caillaud was unsettled for an instant, and then, slowly untwining the
embrace, he made a sign to Pauline, who took Zachariah's hand and led
him outside; the heavy well-oiled bolt of the lock shooting back
under the key with a smooth strong thud between them.
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